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Larys was never a sentimental person. From the moment he was born, he was surrounded only by sadness and melancholy. Because of the death of his mother, who died when she gave birth to him, and whose embrace he never received (what's more, he would have killed to hear her laugh, but he had to enjoy only his father's stories). Because of his leg. Because of his brother, who was always better, taller, stronger. Because of everything that ever surrounded him and will surround him.
That's why he never gave gifts. Of his own free will, of course. On holidays or birthdays, he had to come up with something, but it was easy, the choice was always between gold or information. But these gifts also had their secret side, for each golden cup that the person wanted so much, they eventually had to pay. Not with money, of course, but with information, gossip, or a favor.
It was because of all this that he did not know why he was standing in front of the king's door with a rectangular box.
Of course, seeing your king fall on his feet, his broken cane lying beneath him, hearing him scream in pain, all of this... is unpleasant. But is that really all that brought him here?
Pity?
Was it pity that led him to an old friend who has been making him canes for many, many years. Canes of different materials, different sizes (when he was still a child), different textures...
Was it pity that ordered the man to make him a cane a little shorter than his own, made of expensive metal and wrapped in leather around the top so that it would be pleasant to the touch? Was it pity that he also ordered the cane to have the sigil of the house Targaryen on it?
Pity?
Lord Strong shakes his head from side to side, trying to push all these thoughts away. And then he turns abruptly, already about to leave, when he stops himself, sighing deeply and heavily.
He already ordered it, already paid for it, even asked for a custom box, what else can he do? He can't even leave it for himself, Aegon is shorter than him, his cane won't fit him. And the knights standing by the door have already noticed him.
He shouldn't have come here.
Another sigh.
There's a knock on the heavy door, followed by a quiet "Come in."
Aegon sits on the bed, looking at his hands, not wanting to look up. He doesn't want to see the look of the one who came. Because everyone is looking at him like... like... like he's nobody. He wasn't nobody before, and now, not even able to stand up properly...
"Your Grace," Strong lowers his head, and without waiting for him to look at him, he comes closer.
"Larys," the voice audibly changes its intonation, switching from melancholy to... joy?
"May I...?"
Strong sits down on the bed next to the king, putting his cane aside, placing the box on his thighs.
"I thought you were busy. I was informed that you were out of the castle."
Only after the guy said this, he realized that he gave himself away. That he had just admitted that he had asked about Larys, that he had been worried about where he was and why he hadn't come all day. That he had missed him.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I should have visited you before I left. However, I left for a reason."
There is a strange warmth in the older man's soul. Aegon asked about him.
He wanted to see him.
Hands carefully lift the box and bring it to the king, placing it next to him on the bed so as not to touch his skin.
At the moment when Targaryen looks at the polished wood, he raises an eyebrow, turning to the man.
At that moment, Larys again thinks that this was a bad idea. What if the king considers this as a mockery? As another reminder of his condition? As a desire to show who is superior right now?
And while thoughts swarm in his head, Strong holds his face, only watching as the king opens the box.
His fingers run over the shiny metal with different types of patterns, reaching the beginning, where the leather fits nicely into his hand, immediately absorbing its warmth.
"I..." the king falls silent, not finishing his sentence.
The heart stops for a second.
He won't kill him, not now, not during the war, but later, when it's all over, what will happen then?
"Thank you," Aegon turns, with a smile on his face, a real one this time. The one he showed so often when he was younger.
Targaryen isn't sure what he feels now. Gratitude, yes, of course. But also an unexpected calm. Larys hadn't left because he didn't want to see him or visit him, not because he didn't want to see his burns or his pathetic attempts at walking, not because he'd heard and seen him crying, begging for the milk of the poppy, no. He'd left to bring him a gift. A gift custom-made, especially for him.
Just thinking about it makes his fingers tingle.
"Thank you so much, Larys," he says again, leaning toward the man.
"You're welcome, Your Grace, I just..." he stops talking when he feels the king's arms around him.
Aegon's head rests on his shoulder, and he hides his nose somewhere in his neck. The king's hands are holding him behind his back.
Lord Strong exhales quietly, trying to stop the tingling in his fingers and the rapidly beating heart, and carefully, slowly, trying not to scare, he responds to the embrace, pulling the body in front of him closer to himself.
However, not everything in this world goes as he wants. And no matter how pleasant it is, no matter how much he wants to stay in these chambers forever, on this bed, in these embraces, there is a knock on the door and they have to quickly move away from each other.
It seems that Larys's ears are burning.
"Excuse me, Your Grace," he bows, quickly tidying himself up, heading to the door to open it himself.
"I will see you later?"
An unexpected question makes him stop for a second.
"If you want, we can have dinner together and..." Aegon coughs into his fist, clearing his throat. "Talk about... mm... politics?"
The hope in kings voice kills him.
Exactly.
It wasn't pity that brought him here. What an idiot he is.
"Yes, Your Grace, I would love to talk with you about... politics," and smiling, he opens the door, letting the maesters in, quickly leaving this place.
Only when he is in his chambers, he realizes by the pain in his leg and by how quickly his chest rises and falls, that he ran.
It was hope that brought him there.